Regression to the Means
by ChasetheWindTouchtheSky
Summary: Stiles can't focus (when did he last take his Adderall – before or after his sixteen hour death?) and so he does what he always does: relies on the facts. 3A AU One-Shot


**Hey! I know this has been done 1.5 million times, but I felt like writing some aftermath angst and doing a 3A aftermath fic. Cuppa-Char has a really great one, so I apologize for hijacking the idea. I just have a hard time believing that someone who crashed their car to the point of unconsciousness after dying would be able to simply be 'okay' so shortly after.**

**So yes, it's another post-Nemeton story with a little medical angst that I think should've happened. Because I can understand going into shock and having your adrenaline get you through all the scary bits, but after that shock goes away, injuries usually make themselves known, yes?**

Regression to the Means

_By ChasetheWind-TouchtheSky_

Stiles can't focus (when did he last take his Adderall – before or after his sixteen hour death?) and so he does what he always does: relies on the facts. And the facts are as followed:

_My name is Stiles Stilinski._

_I am seventeen-years-old._

_My father was kidnapped by an evil druid._

_I died for 16 hours by drowning._

_I'm afraid of drowning._

_I got in a car crash._

_I saved my father._

_Everyone's alive._

He tells himself these things over and over to keep himself grounded in reality. Because quite frankly? Reality is a little bit of a challenge right now. Because a bat is keeping them all alive and if that isn't the biggest piece of shit he's heard in a while, he wasn't sure what is.

About ten minutes ago, he called Scott and he was on his way with a ladder. Stiles sits against the side of the Nemeton, wiping blood out of his eyes and trying to tell himself his eyesight is blurry because he almost died a little while ago, not because he wrapped his Jeep around a tree. In the grand scheme of things, almost drowning is much worse than wrapping a car around a tree.

The only reason he's sitting calmly by himself is because Melissa is over by his did, making sure the stab wound from when he was kidnapped was nothing but superficial. It's not because his head is pounding and he feels a little sick to his stomach. He blinks and it feels like it takes a year. He may have taken a nap. But he doesn't think he should do that after he's died and then got in a car crash.

He shivers, pulling his flannel closer to his chest. God, it's cold. Why hadn't he worn a jacket? He should seriously consider having a 'supernatural survival kit' in his car that includes Band Aids, a blanket, and Reese's.

He turns his attention to Allison, Isaac, and Mr. Argent. It's kind of hilarious – if they hadn't all almost died. He knows that Isaac likes Allison and Allison likes Isaac, but what do you do when the father of the girl you want to date is right there? And has a lot of guns? And has actual, legitimate training to murder you? With experience? Stiles guesses that some light bullet wounds are in Isaac's future. Serves him right for all the times he's inappropriately worn scarves. Damn, maybe he'll let Stiles add one to his supernatural kit.

"…tiles. Stiles. _Stiles!_"

Stiles snaps to attention, blinking a little dazedly at the noise, grimacing when he notices everyone's staring at him. His dad tries to bat away Mrs. McCall's inspection of him, but she gives him one look with his fierce nurse gaze and he crumbles. He stays where he is, but he's whispering something to Mama McCall that Stiles is certain has to do with him. "You alright there, son?" His father asks, making a noise when she pokes him in his shoulder. "Good Lord, Melissa," he breathes, wincing. "Stiles, you still with me, kid?"

"Yeah, yeah," he hears himself saying and he's rather proud of how calm it is. "Sorry, I'm a little spacey. I'm just a little cold."

He says that for a couple reasons. 1) Because it's the truth and Stiles is trying this new thing where he tells his dad the truth. And 2) Out of all the things that seem to be wrong with him at the moment, it seems to be the safest.

A sharp pain makes itself known in his side and he closes his eyes, pretending that it isn't there. The adrenaline's worn off and it's looking like his body isn't _quite_ as okay after the accident as he originally thought, but when do things ever really go his way? "Stiles?" Stiles opens one of his eyes to see Isaac standing in front of him. He frowns at the werewolf, a part of him wanting to shut down and snark at Isaac. "I can give you my shirt."

So not what he thought Isaac was going to say.

Because he gets it. Isaac was there. He pulled them all out of the ice tubs. And Allison's over by her dad, wrapped in Argent's coat and quite frankly, it looks awesome. But if he accepts Isaac's offer, it'll make his dad and Melissa suspicious. So instead, he gives Isaac a genuine small while saying, "Any excuse with you werewolves to take your shirts off."

Isaac chuckles, but he crouches down to eyelevel where Stiles is. In low tones, drawing the suspicion to them as if he shouted, Isaac says, "Come on, dude. You know you need it. Allison's got her dad and Scott's got werewolf healing and—"

"Hey!"

Isaac's cut off by a shout at the entry of the Nemeton and Stiles wants to cry with relief. Any further, he'd never be able to shake his dad off. And all he wants is to make sure everyone is okay. And then he can freak out. But only after he knows everyone is okay.

Scott's head peeks down the hole and Stiles tears up a bit relief. Scott is alive. His dad is alive. Everyone is alive.

_My name is Stiles Stilinski._

A ladder is brought down to them and his dad ushers Melissa up it. Stiles can't help but be relieved at that gesture because Melissa never would've done it if she thought he was in any serious trouble. People start clambering out of the hole and he knows that he needs to stand up and get ready to get out of the Nemeton. He tells himself this. Over and over again. But when he tries to move, there's a searing pain in his side and he squeaks. It makes Isaac offer a hand. "You okay, man?" He asks.

Dammit, Isaac's worried. He needs to work on his acting if _Isaac_ is worried for him.

Stiles takes his hand with a smile that he's sure looks only like it's 15% forced and is helped to his feet. He exhales sharply – woah, there's probably something broken in the whole chest-region and he's gonna have to be careful about the whole 'breathing like a normal person' thing – and Isaac nudges him forward and he nearly cries when his body is shaken.

He does make it out of the tree without breaking down and crying, so Stiles considers it a win. Scott claps his shoulder (Stiles closes his eyes because _holy shit_, how can a comforting gesture hurt so much), frowning at the cut at his head. Stiles knows he should say something reassuring and he somehow manages to say, "'Tis but a flesh wound" with a loopy grin that is partially him loopy off the pain.

Scott seems to fall for it because he grins and moves to help Isaac. Stiles takes a moment and surveys the situation.

_I am seventeen years old._

Derek's over by his dad and Melissa and Stiles can't help but be comforted by that. If anything was going to attack them at the moment, they'd be safe. And he can take a moment to breathe.

He thinks he may throw up, but that seems to be a bad idea. He's not sure whatever's going on his rib cage can handle it. He wants to lift up his shirt and truly assess what's going on, but he knows that'll attract attention.

Everyone's out of the hole and he may actually start crying. He's thinking he should probably go over to his father and hug him until he's about to fall over. And considering that'll probably be sometime soon, he wills himself to go over there. His dad is speaking with Derek and Melissa – he thinks that he may be drilling Derek with werewolf questions – but he looks up when Stiles approaches.

Stiles hopes that he doesn't ask him any questions because things are getting a little spotty and he's not sure well he'll be able to answer them. Instead, he grabs his father's hand, not caring about how weird it is or that it basically makes his nonexistent 'cool factor' plummet. But he holds his dad's hand and for a second, the pain goes away.

_My father was kidnapped by an evil druid._

"So, what's the final verdict, there Mama McCall?" Stiles asks, trying to make sure his voice is light and airy. "Everything okay with my Pops, here?"

Melissa doesn't respond right away. She looks at him and _aw dammit_, he knows that look. That's her 'interrogation nurse' look. But, she smiles and says, "He'll live. We need get some antibiotics in him, but I don't even think he needs stitches."

"Nice," Stiles smiles wryly. He looks at the ground and holy shit, it looks comfy.

"You know I'm going to check that head wound, right?" Melissa says, her tone amused.

Stiles smiles because _yes_, she's buying it and he just has to make sure a couple more people are okay and then he might take an Advil. "It's really nothing," he says with a shrug. "but if you want to check it out, whatever.

And then she stills at that. Stiles tries to figure out what he said wrong because somehow it made everything _worse_. Because now she's looking at him like there was something really, _really_ wrong. She catches his father's eye and they're doing that parental thing where they're communicating with only their looks. That can't be good.

"I'm gonna make sure Scott's okay." Stiles says, squeezing his father's hand because he's a little afraid to let go. But if he doesn't, he's afraid he'll go away.

_I died for 16 hours by drowning._

But as he moves to pull away, his father's grip tightens around his hand. "Wait, wait, wait, kiddo." His dad says, pulling him back. Stiles body is beginning to shut down and quite frankly, he just wants to sleep for about a week. "Why don't you let Melissa check you out?"

"I just want to make sure everything's okay."

At least, that's what he thinks he said. But everything's a little wibbly wobbly (timey wimey – wait, what was he thinking about? Seriously, when was the last time he took his Adderall?) and his stomach is _really_ hurting and he actually feels a little nauseous. But he needs to make sure everything's _fine_, and he knows he's being 'hyper vigilant' or whatever, but he needs to _know_.

Melissa grabs his head between her hands, pressing slightly against the cut which, to be honest, is totally not even close on the list of things that are bothering him at the moment. In fact, it's not much more than a dull ache. "It doesn't seem that bad," she mutters, pressing her thumb against it. "Maybe could be a Grade Two concussion—"

"It's _not_," Stiles insists, annoyed because now she's drawing attention. Even Scott drags himself away from the awkward Bermuda Triangle that is he, Allison, and Isaac to peek over at the ruckus his mother's making. "I told you it wasn't a big deal."

_I'm afraid of drowning._

"Why do you think I'm positive something's wrong?" Melissa asks, continuing her examination of his head. "You willingly said I could check your head, which leads me to believe something else is wrong. You'd _never _willingly let me examine you, unless something else was wrong and you were trying to be sneaky and hide it."

_Fuck_.

"Why does something always have to be wrong?" He says, his breathing a little more difficult and his chest aching a little more than before. Okay, something was probably seriously wrong, but now it's the principle of the matter.

"It's been my understanding that something usually is," Melissa says calmly, continuing her examination.

"I think your focus should be my dad." Stiles states, annoyed when she grabs his eyes and looks at his pupils. "Because he's the one who was stabbed."

"Good God, Stiles, just let the woman examine you." His dad groans, but it's a little hard to hear because it's actually becoming hard to _breathe_. "Didn't you hear? I'm fine."

"Keep in mind, I haven't seen you in two days." Stiles says, casting his gaze to the ground. "I didn't think you were coming back alive."

_And I'd be all alone_ is left unsaid, but very present.

His father doesn't have another response.

_I got in a car crash._

"Maybe it's the other thing." Scott says and Stiles widens his eyes and whirls around. That action alone almost drops Stiles to his knees, but he thinks the panic of all their secrets coming out is giving him a second round of adrenaline.

"Scott," Allison warns.

"Dude, we promised we would say anything about that!" Stiles hisses, knowing everyone can hear him, but having a difficult time quieting down anyway.

Scott recoils. "No we didn't!"

"Scott, what did you _do_?" Melissa demands, her eyes narrowing.

Shit, now the parents are going to triple team them.

"Nothing!" Stiles exclaims. "Why I don't feel well has nothing to do with that!"

_Shit._

This is turning into a disaster for a myriad of reasons. The main one being that he just admitted he didn't feel well. Understatement. The second being now their parents are incredibly suspicious and pissed. This is going about as well as when Stiles tried to tell his dad about werewolves.

"Well then, Stiles, why don't you tell us why you don't feel well?" Melissa presses and Stiles is so screwed. But, something weird is happening. Call it hypervigilance or whatever, but after months of being backed into corner after corner like some sort of caged animal, all he wants to do is chew his leg out of whatever trap they've set for him and escape. No, it doesn't make logical sense, but his logical sense is somewhere buried under the Nemeton or broken in the bent metal of his Jeep.

"No, it's not that—" Stiles says, running his hands through his hair, but it tugs at his cut and he makes a face before he can stop himself.

"My mom should check you for symptoms of hypothermia," Scott states, a harsh tone in his voice that Stiles doesn't understand, but feels secretly compelled to do what he's demanding. That's an experience he doesn't understand.

"Hypothermia?" His dad asks and Stiles wonders when this conversation all went to hell and why.

_I saved my father._

"Scott, stop it." Allison warns again, but now all the parents are curious.

Damn it, Scott.

But he's not backing down and Stiles can't decide whether he wants to be appreciative of his friend's concern or straight up throttle him for his idiocy. "Stiles, it's okay," Scott says, probably trying to come off as helpful – because let's be honest, it's Scott, and he's actual sunshine – but it just makes it worse. "I heal and Allison's been with her dad and you've been by yourself. Just let my mom check you out."

"What did you _do_, Scott." Melissa snaps, her attention now entirely taken by her son.

Stiles may be an asshole, but he's secretly grateful.

"We had to find you!" Scott exclaims and Stiles is so happy the pressure's off of him. The parents are all staring at Scott because he's the most likely to break under pressure. It's true, but it doesn't mean that Stiles isn't grateful.

He takes a moment to lean against the tree, his chest tightening. Everything's hurting. Logically, Stiles knows that it's probably due to the fact that the adrenaline is wearing off and his body is probably going into shock due to the extent of his injuries. It's bad, he knows. But he's a big fan of ignoring a problem in desperate hopes that it'll go away.

"What did you do, Scott?" Stiles' dad asks and he's using his 'dad' voice, with a trace of his Sheriff voice, so Scott is pretty much a goner. "Tell us. Now."

Scott looks from Allison to Stiles, panicked as he does so. "You guys were going to die and we all panicked. And it was Stiles' idea!"

_"__What?!"_ Stiles exclaims, his chest screaming in protest. "It wasn't my idea!"

"You're the one who asked me to do it!" Scott cries.

"It was Deaton's idea!"

"I don't care!" The Sheriff bellows. "Somebody better be explaining to me what is going on and they better be explaining to me right now!"

Scott exhales and Stiles knows that he's going to break. Because it's Scott and he doesn't like lying and his mother upset with him even less. "We needed to find you," Scott starts solemnly.

"Scott, stop!" Allison ushers, stepping away from her father when he eyes her.

"It's too late now," Scott insists.

Stiles knows he's right. It's going to come out because the parents are now alerted that there was something wrong and there was really no stopping his dad when he had that face on. So Stiles takes this moment to recount the facts to keep himself from falling over. (He doesn't _fall_ over, he gently lets himself to the ground because standing's hard, assholes.) His chest is getting tighter and it feels like everyone else is taking all the oxygen. Which is selfish, because he needs it too. Maybe even more because he's an idiot who crashed his Jeep.

What were the facts again?

Stiles tries to run through them, but everything's getting a little spotty. Scott must've finished the story because he thinks everyone's yelling and his dad has that face on and what was he doing?

Something feels like it pierces his chest and suddenly the difficult breathing becomes less difficult and more _impossible_. Every breath is shorter, smaller, less fulfilling than the last and all he wants to do is cry out. But he doesn't because that would involve _breathing_.

"Stiles?" Someone asks, but it's far away and he doesn't feel quite like shouting.

_Everyone's alive._

Instead, he decides to take a nap because what the hell, he died today and he's pretty sure he deserves it.

"Stiles?"

That brings John out of his explosion of words to Scott because _what the hell were they thinking – dying for their sakes – did they ever thinking any of these plans through?!_ He looks around because he can hear desperation in the teen's voice. Scott's head whips up (it may or may not have been bowed as he took his verbal lashing) as if he heard something no one else did, and seeing as he's a werewolf, it occurs to John that it might be the case. But then Derek Hale does the same and he knows something is really wrong.

"Oh my God," Scott breathes.

And that's when John has the delightful experience of watching his only son slump to the ground, his eyes rolling up in his head.

"What the hell!" Melissa shouts, sprinting over to where Stiles is now crumpled on the cold earth. "He was fine, I checked his head."

"Mom, he's barely breathing!" Scott exclaims, his voice going higher than John had ever heard.

Three words that John could've gone his whole life without hearing. He feels his chest tighten as he drops to his knees. His entire head feels like it's going to explode – werewolves, Darachs, human sacrifices, what the _fuck_ – and all he can think about is how his son is lying on the ground, his left leg tucked under him uncomfortably and his lips slowly tinting blue.

"I-I don't understand." Melissa says, putting her hand on his head. "It shouldn't be affecting him like this. Even with hypothermia with you kids' _stupid, stupid_ plan, his body shouldn't be reacting like this!"

Then, she grabs the end of his shirt and pulls up.

John's pretty sure he will never know what oxygen truly is again.

Because Stiles' chest is crushed.

Well, he isn't sure what the medical term is, but it looks crushed. It's purple and blue and there's some splotches by his heart that makes John's own stop. Now, he may not be a medical professional, but he is a Sheriff. He'd seen enough car crashes to know when things were good and when they were bad.

This was definitely a bad.

"Oh my God," Melissa breathes, her hands quaking as they hover over Stiles' chest. "Oh my God, oh my God. I-I don't even know where to start."

"What would you say if you were in the hospital right now?" Chris asks, the only one who seems to be keeping his head at the moment. "Think about the problem if it wasn't Stiles. If you were in the hospital and he came to you."

Melissa's hands start to shake harder at that. "B-But we're not in the hospital. I-I don't have—"

"Mel!" John shouts and seems to snap her out of her reverie.

Melissa stands and brushes herself off. "I can't help him here. We need to get him to the hospital right now."

"We can take my SUV." Chris says. "It's parked just a ways away."

Without another word, John scoops up his son and runs after Chris. He knows that everyone's following him anyway and he looks at his son's pale face and everything shatters. Chris opens the door and takes Stiles from John. He panics briefly and then realizes Chris is gesturing for him to get in the car. John clambers in, gently pulling Stiles onto his lap after. He takes comfort in the small wins, like the miniscule rise of Stiles' chest.

Melissa scrambles in after him, moving Stiles' feet and sitting before she lays him back on top of her. Scott, Isaac, and Derek follow after and sit in the back, Allison jumping into the passenger seat. "Okay John," Melissa says, her hard, nurse-voice finally present. "I need you to tell me if he stops breathing. Can you do that?"

John nods, numb. He's not sure if he knows how to speak at this point.

She fumbles in her purse as Chris leaps into the driver's seat and peels out of the forest. Pulling out a pair of small scissors, she runs them up Stiles' shirt. John flinches when he sees the bruises again.

"Okay Stiles," Melissa says, her voice gentle and quavering. "Sweetie, I need you to hang on." She places a few fingers at the bottom of his rib cage, slightly pressing down and moving up his chest.

"Mom?" Scott asks and it's so broken and small, it makes John's already broken heart shatter into tinier pieces.

"He's got a collapsed lung," Melissa says, her eyes watering, but stoic. "He needs a chest tube to inflate it and will need to rush into surgery as soon as he gets there. This bruising here," she points to some of the nastier bruises on his abdomen (the ones that John's been ignoring because if he thinks about it too much, he might throw up). "Is indicative of internal bleeding. Since we don't know how long ago his accident is, we have to assume it is in dangerous levels. Scott, call the hospital and tell them that I say they need to have an ER prepped immediately. How far out are we?"

"Five minutes." Chris grumbles from the front.

A small moan comes from Stiles and it sounds like a thunderclap.

"Stiles?" Melissa answers hastily.

He makes a pitiful noise that will haunt John's dreams for the foreseeable future, a few tears leaking from his eyes. He opens his mouth, but nothing but a flow of whimpers come out. "Can'…" he tries, but it sounds like he's choking and John knows enough that that's not a good sign. "Can't…"

"You're okay, son." John says, running his hands through his hair. "You're going to be okay. Don't be afraid."

Which, to be honest, is an unfair thing to say to the boy, considering he's _terrified_.

But in response, Stiles' eyes roll back in his head and his body slumps in a way that reminds him of all the people he's watched die as his tenure as Sheriff. And adding his own son to the list simply does not interest him at all. "Mel, he's not breathing," John says, his voice low and panicky.

Melissa gets on her knees and starts compressions on his chest, closing her eyes as she counts. "He shouldn't even have been able to walk with these injuries. There's no way that he's going to stop breathing now." She says breathlessly. "Come on, Stiles. Don't give up now."

"We're here." Chris says and John may want to kiss him. But his son doesn't breathe and all he can hear is the silence of that noise and wonders how that's possible.

The doors of the SUV are being opened and a gurney's being rushed toward them. Then there's the absence of Stiles' body as he's pulled away and John feels like he's already lost him. It's an awful feeling. It makes him feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. For the past year, he'd been angry. Angry at Stiles, angry at his job, angry at life.

Too many things were taken away.

Only to find out that werewolves were a thing that exists and that his own son – his son that he'd cursed and considered sending to military school – had been running around behind his back, trying to make sure his city was safe. He just got that. He _just_ got the final pieces of information that no one else would give him. He'd been trying to save lives from creatures he didn't believe in and had been grounding the people involved with saving everyone. And he was proud of Stiles and Scott and everything they risked for the lives of others.

And the last thing Stiles knew was his anger.

"None of that," Melissa says, drawing John out of his cycle of self-loathing once she returns to the SUV (presumably since John never left). "I don't know what's going on in your head, but it's probably unproductive and untrue. But right now? Right now your son needs you and he needs to you to be strong."

John swallows a few times because words are lost to him. "He's needed me for a while. And where was I?"

Melissa puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You were where he wanted you to be. Safe."

There many things in John's life that he wishes were different. Many.

He wished people didn't die as frequently in Beacon Hills. He wished his wife wasn't one of them. He wished that he earned more to provide all the opportunities Stiles deserved. He wished he's known about werewolves sooner.

But one thing he'd never wish was different was Stiles.

He'd curse Stiles, would be exasperated with him, but would never want to change him. Having a son like Stiles was like trying to take a whirlwind of motion and energy – fruitless and awe-inspiring. And he forgot for a while how much he loved it. Being in the hospital ensured that he would not make the same mistake again.

He seems so small in the hospital bed. It's moments like these when John really could take a step back and realize how young he was. He acted and spoke like an adult (when he wasn't been a teenage idiot), but the wires and tubes seem to swallow him whole.

John runs his hand down his face.

The doctors said he'd be fine. They managed to stop the internal bleeding and inflate his lung. Fortunately it was only partially collapsed and the main issue was the wonderful car accident-hypothermia hybrid that his son happened to collect. They said he'd be totally functional in a couple weeks.

But as the Sheriff watches his son not moving in a bed that's too small, it's difficult to wrap his head around that hope.

It'd been two days. Melissa says it's normal and he tells himself it'd be foolish not to believe her. People had been in and out of the hospital – people the Sheriff didn't even realize were integral in Stiles' life until recently. Scott being the most frequent, but he even received visits from Lydia Martin and some good-looking kid named Danny, who the Sheriff once almost arrested to hacking in the police database. That was a friendship he had to be weary off because between Danny's computer skills and Stiles' diabolical mind, there was no telling what problems they could create.

John freezes when he notices a pair of half-lidded, amber eyes staring at him. "Uh, nurse?" He cries out, not taking his gaze off of his son's eyes – a sight he was afraid he'd never see again. "Nurse?"

Someone scrambles in the room, making a delighted noise when she sees Stiles. "Looks like someone's finally joining us," she says pleasantly, which John takes irrational annoyance at, as if _Stiles_ was holding them up.

He's been in the hospital far too long to deal with people.

She flits around, taking his vitals and writing a few things on his chart. "He'll be in and out for the next couple hours. He'll probably ask you the same questions a few times. His pain button is over here and please click the call button if you need anything."

Unfortunately, what she says is true. Stiles wakes four times before he's coherent and John has to reassure him that everyone's _alive_ each and every one. But the fifth time, awareness is apparent and he's looking at John as if he's afraid of him. It's an expression John would prefer to never see again. Then he says something that John doesn't expect (although, when does Stiles do the expected?).

"I'm so sorry, Dad."

Now, there are several ways John could deal with such a proclamation. And all of them filter out of his brain and he's unsure of what to say. "What could you possibly be sorry for?"

Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his bed, wincing in pain and John puts his hands up, as if he could take it away. But he can't and he hates it. "For everything."

There's a lot of weight to those two words. To be honest, John isn't entirely sure what 'everything' entails. And he's positive during Stiles' recovery, he'll learn it all. But in this moment, it doesn't matter. What matters is that Stiles is alive, he's alive, the sacrificial murderer is dead, and for the first time in a while, Beacon Hills is quiet.

"I don't know a lot of the story," John starts, taking his son's hand because he _needs_ to. "Scott's tried to fill me in here and there but neither of us were really into explanations in the past couple days. And while I hate that you two have been endangering your lives left and right behind my back, I get it, son. I _get it_. You tried to do the right thing. Maybe you didn't always go about it the right way—"

"I have a restraining order on my record that would agree with you." Stiles mutters.

"—but you tried. And for that, I am unbelievably proud of you."

Stiles' eyes water and John may have to look at the ceiling to stop his own. "I know I should've told you sooner. I just wanted to keep you safe."

"But Stiles," John snaps, an anger filtering through him that he didn't realize he was harboring. "I'm your dad. I'm the _dad_. You're the kid. I'm supposed to take care of you, not the other way around!"

"We're supposed to take care of each other," Stiles mumbles, his voice small. All of John's frustration filters out at that. "That's what mom always said. We're supposed to take care of each other."

John sighs. "That's the second time in a couple days you've used your mom against me."

Stiles averts his gaze, ashamed. "I'm sorry. That was…"

"I get it, son." John says with a sad smile. "You were desperately grasping at straws and I wasn't helping. And she would've believed you. But you have to understand – you are the single most important thing in my life. And if we take care of each other – if we're this team that you say we are – I need all the information. I need to know why my town's in danger. I need to know. Because you've been taking care of me. And I haven't the slightest clue how to take care of you."

"I know."

"Stiles, I mean it."

"I _know_." Stiles insists. "I couldn't lose both of you." He says, looking away as a tear falls. "I'm not strong enough. I-I'm not strong enough to lose both my parents."

"And I'm not strong enough to lose my wife and my son." John sighs, slumping back in the hospital chair. "Let me be along for the ride, kid. That's all I ask. I know, now. Share this part of it with me."

"Well, I have no choice now."

_"__STILES."_

Stiles smiles. "I promise."

John nods. "And if I _ever_ hear you pulling a stunt like you did at Deaton's – drowning yourself for God's sake – I will lock you in your room and never let you out."

Stiles smirks. "I'd escape."

"Then I'll lock you in a cell."

"I'd find a way out."

John knows it's true and it's a little terrifying.

The two sit in a comfortable silence for a while. John knows they have hard conversations to have. They have to discuss things and problems no teenager should ever know. The air isn't clear yet. But it's breathable. It's okay. And for that, he's grateful.

A thought occurs to him. "Stiles?"

"Mhm?"

"I thought you are afraid of drowning."

Stiles eyes snap open, wildly alert. "What?"

John frowns. "Scott said you were held underwater for the ritual. Your biggest fear is drowning."

Stiles studies him for a moment. "And?"

"You did that for me?"

Stiles suspicion crumbles. "Dad," Stiles says exasperatedly. "I would do _anything_ for you."

John's heart melts.

He leans out of his seat, pressing a kiss to Stiles forehead. He missed this – he missed having a relationship with his son. Stiles still under the touch, closing his eyes. He doesn't open them when John leans back in his chair. Instead, his eyebrows furrow and his lips tremble. John takes the pain button in his hand and presses it.

Stiles shivers and frowns. "What are you doing?"

"Pain meds."

Stiles shakes his head. "Not a good idea, what if something happens or someone needs research and it's dumbing my brain down?"

John hits it one more time and the lines in Stiles' forehead finally relax. "Don't worry, I have a gun."

Stiles still doesn't seem sated, but the drugs are clearly helping. "Not enough," he slurs.

"I have Derek Hale on speed dial."

Stiles' eyes flutter shut, but not before a loopy grin tugs on his face.

"Put him in your contacts as Sourwolf." Stiles says, his words mushing together and his body slumping back in the pillows.

"I don't even want to know," John sighs, content with this moment.

For the first time in a while, he thinks everything will be okay.

At least, after all this time, balanced.

**A/N: Holy bananas, did that one-shot get away from me. It went from 'let's have some angst fun' to 'let's write fifteen pages of 3A angst and shenanigans.' WHAT WAS I THINKING.**

**But Stiles/Sheriff relationship is the best. You can pry my love for their relationship out of my cold, dead hands.**

**Please leave a note if you have the time! I love reading them. Much love!**


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